


Payback

by Slater_Babe



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Competitive Relationship, Crass language, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunken Shenanigans, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fantasizing, Lingerie, Masturbation, Nude Photos, Nude Polaroids, Penetration, Sex Toys, Voyeurism, fuck buddy relationship, mentioned public sex, mentions of dick sucking, mentions of oral sex, mentions of pussy eating, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29629767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slater_Babe/pseuds/Slater_Babe
Summary: Javier Peña was an asshole. It was the law of the land, at this point, and this far into your time as fuck buddies, it really shouldn’t surprise you how much he gets off on leaving you high and dry. But when drunken midnight fun makes the office fair game a few days later, you find a way to get your payback.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	Payback

**Author's Note:**

> uwu hello!!! im back again~~ this time for some Javi smut, since I got this idea late last night and wanted it to come to life! This was originally posted on my Tumblr (linked below), so go there if you wanna read the original!! Also, another chapter of High Rise (AO3) is up today! So be looking forwards to that~ happy reading <3
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)

Javier Peña is an asshole. It’s just a common fact of life at this point. Even the interns weren’t afraid to admit it anymore, despite how wet behind the ears they still were.

 _Got a fresh pack of cigarettes?_ Javi will manage to steal a few. 

_Finally have a minute between paperwork?_ Javi will bombard you with his own. 

_Have a vagina?_ Well, it might be crass, but Javi will find a way inside it.

For all intents and purposes, Javier seemed unaffected by the shady overhang of his reputation. In fact, it's almost like he _embraced_ the grey areas and scathing looks thrown his way, just another notch on a belt that was already falling apart with how many holes had been poked through its leather.

And for the most part, people let him go on like that. They let him walk around in his yellow aviators and leather jacket, let him call the shots and run the scene, because that’s just the kind of person Javi was: he was dangerous, with a silver-tongue and sharp wit; unforgivingly ambidextrous, with the literal and metaphorical body count to prove it.

Nobody messed with Javier Peña, unless they were looking for a lifetime of inside jokes and bad rumors to follow them around, all at their expense.

So yeah, Javier Peña was an asshole, through and through.

Lucky for you, though, Javier Peña was _your_ asshole (or, well… _yours_ as much as any other eternal bachelor could commit himself to a woman), and that came with a few perks of its own.

 _Javi’s got a fresh pack of cigarettes?_ You’re the only one he won’t complain about bumming one off to.

 _Javi’s stuck up to his eyes in paperwork?_ You’re the only one he won’t snap at for distracting him.

Naturally, it just follows that if Javi’s going to let _anyone_ in this godforsaken country mess with him, you’re the only one that wouldn’t lose their tongue in the process. And god knows you love taking advantage of that.

Because Javi’s an asshole. And he’s especially an asshole _to you._

How about last Friday in that backroom off the corner of the ambassador’s office? He’d torn your body apart, atom by atom, against the filing cabinets, held you down and took what he wanted, all while you bit into the shoulder of his work shirt to keep from nearly screaming his praises. God, the way he’d walked in, red with anger and taut with stress, shoved the center of your panties back just enough to get his tongue beneath your pencil skirt. He’d fucked you with his tongue, his fingers, his cock--but not _once_ did he let you come. You’d left that backroom with smeared mascara and a button missing from your blouse. Needless to say, he was leaking steadily from you the entire day, and your soaked bikini cut was doing _nothing_ to stop it.

But then...thinking back on it, that night on stakeout was almost worse. He’d had you cornered the moment you stepped foot in his jeep, dragging his eyes over your body in the passenger seat as many times as he could get away with it in the short span you were posted on that corner. Skipping over the finer details, you’d sucked Javi off while he kept watch in the driver’s seat, let him pull your hair and call you names, buck up into your mouth until you could taste him rather than the mint gum you’d been chewing minutes before. His fingers had been this close to your g-spot the moment that damn sicario had chosen to leave the corner store you were staking out, and all you’d got as compensation was a harsh slap to your bare pussy, and a threatening hiss of _“You’ll take what I give you, girl, or you’ll get nothing at all.”_

Of course, the words sounded damning coming from his own mouth for once, because there was never a more fitting phrase for a man like him: _all or nothing._

And for as much shit Javi put you through, with his veritible sex addicition and those jeans that did _nothing_ but emphasize his woefully flat ass, you had to give him credit.

When he said everything, he meant _everything._

There were nights you spent tangled up for hours in bed with him, cigarettes burning like incense in the ashtray on the nightstand, all but forgotten, while he kissed up your body inch by inch. He wouldn’t stop until you were sweating, panting in his ear to _just get on with it already_ , and by the time he finally made himself useful, you were falling apart before the headboard could even hit the wall. He was meticulous and caring when he wanted to be. He could make you cum ten times over for every time he denied you, but the biting words and bruises always lasted longer than the mushy parts anyway.

Which is why you’ve fancied yourself a little payback, if you will. You sway your hips with a little more purpose as you walk back towards the office you, Javi, and Steve shared. For as much as the government boasted their overwhelming power and determination, they sure as hell weren’t _‘determined’_ enough to find an office that didn’t require three of the highest-ranking agents in the country to buddy-up their desks like a bunch of grade schoolers. Javi and Steve’s desks faced each other, while yours was crammed in at the head of the two. There was barely enough room left to fit a pair of filing cabinets against the adjacent wall, _on top of which_ Steve had somehow managed to balance a coffee machine and a few stacks of overflow paperwork, just so the three of you wouldn’t have to suffer through the fresh hell that was CNP complimentary coffee.

At this point, your own little private stash of Peruvian dark roast was the only thing keeping the three of you from jumping off the roof hand-in-hand, what with all the hoops Escobar had you jumping through nowadays. 

But, the main takeaway from all that is that your office was, more often than not, cramped like a Tokyo train car and hotter than the seventh circle of hell… _all at the same time._

_God bless America._

Usually, you’d be whining about that, but for what you had in store, it was more than perfect. 

You cradled a manila envelope against your torso, rubbing over the crisp edges with your fingertips every so often, just to remind yourself that whatever happened, Javi deserved what was coming to him. 

You reached the back offices with a more pointed clack of your heels against the tiled floors, shoulders swaying with every step, chin held high in both confidence and feigned aloofness. Despite the cold look on your face, your heart was thrumming inside, eating at your nerves every time you thought back to what you’d put in that envelope (nevermind the hell you’d probably pay for it later, too…)

Before you can think too much of it, though, you lean casually in the open doorway of the office space, the pair of your partners hardly stopping their incessant typing to give you so much as a second glance.

You clear your throat--only Javi looks up, cigarette perched in his mouth. Steve just ignores you altogether, hands still flying over his typewriter.

You roll your eyes but stalk forward nonetheless, throwing the envelope on Javi’s desk with a nervous lurching in your chest, heat pooling in between your legs as the countdown finally begins.

“Noonan’s got some intel I need you to vet,” you begin, trying to make the words come out of your mouth less like you’d practiced them, and more like you were too disinterested to give them a second thought, “Something about tax returns, I think...I don’t know; I was half asleep just listening to it.”

Javier glares at you over a puff of smoke, but picks up the envelope despite the adorable downward curl of his mustache--and once again--you silently thank the lord that Javi’s got a soft spot shaped exactly like your body in his heart. 

You step out with as much swiftness as you can manage, posting yourself at the evidence lockers on the wall next to the door of the office in a bid to fake busyness, when really, you’re just gauging Javi’s reaction out of the corner of your eye.

It’s when you’re menially thumbing through a file about monthly cartel expenses that Javi finally undoes the latch on the envelope, all but dumping the contents onto the surface of his desk--and for a second there, your heart is in your throat.

And from the looks of it, Javi’s is in his throat, too.

Because right there, scattered on his desk top at 3 PM on a Wednesday afternoon, is a full set of polaroid photos, _most_ of which have your bare tits, ass, cunt (or all three) on full display for the entire office to soak up.

Yet by some saving grace, Steve is still mindlessly tapping away at his typewriter, barely looking up from the page except to shake a blob of ash from the tip of his cigarette.

Javi sends you a look over the top of the folder, hurriedly gathering the photos in his hand as subtly as he can, only to discreetly position them behind the envelope while he curiously thumbs through them. 

You turn away as a blush creeps onto your cheeks, sudden mortification swallowing every nerve in your body as your mind forces you to recount every picture you’d managed to cram in there. For as crude as your inner monologue could get some days, you were a shy woman at heart. You kept to yourself, for the most part, played the role you were supposed to play when it was needed. But let it be known that there was a hint of a spark underneath the surface, just to keep the others on their toes.

Your personality was like watching a firework sparkle underneath a frozen pond: contained, blurred over, but extraordinary all the same.

And, _god_ , if the firework part of you wasn’t fucking _exploding_ right about now.

You’d been drunk the night you’d taken them. Your girlfriends had managed to whisk you away from the office for a night out of drinking and dancing--a night that would hopefully get you away from the two men who were currently ruining your life (or so they thought): Javier Peña and Pablo Escobar.

(Steve Murphy wasn’t included in that group simply because he had a wife whose cooking generously made up for what a pain in the ass he could be sometimes).

Needless to say, a few too many rounds of tequila shots later had you stumbling through your apartment door carrying your heels rather than wearing them, while drunken frustration kept your hands fisted at your sides, teeming with some unexplainable energy you just couldn’t shake. 

It was only a half hour later, mind a little clearer and hands a little shakier as you went to grab the dildo stashed away in your bedside drawer, that you caught sight of the old polaroid camera your best friend had given you a couple years ago as a birthday present. 

And of course, the alcohol in your mind just couldn’t resist how infuriated Javi would look the minute he saw it.

So you’d rifled through your closet with all the patience a half-drunk girl in desperate need of some self-love could muster in search of the perfect outfit, when your fingertips brushed over the hem of a racy little number you’d been meaning to save for Valentine’s day.

It was definitely a little more conservative as far as lingerie went, but you knew Javi couldn’t get enough of the innocent façade you liked to put on sometimes. Things like white lace and coy glances, hiding your face in his shoulder while you sat on his lap--all the things that made him feel like he could break you with a single touch of his finger tip.

When you’d picked it up in the store, you’d nearly fainted from embarrassment while bringing it up to the cash register. But looking at it here, sitting innocently in your closet, just waiting to be defiled, you couldn’t help but feel like your current filth was just as fitting a situation as any to bring it out.

It was a criminally-short, silky chemise dress, near see-through at the top, where all you had was the flimsy protection of white lace to cover your bust. The bottom was hemmed in a curving style around your upper thighs, where lace flared just _right_ to emphasize the line of your hips, all the while, doing the bare minimum to cover your little, puffy pussy, which peaked out just below the bottom.

You’d taken a few shots in the mirror first, posing just the right way to have the lace tugging up over your bare asscheeks, framing the stringy thong you’d thrown on as an afterthought. Two shots of your tits and nipples under the flimsy lace, a few twists and turns in front of the mirror as you tried to imagine the red hand prints Javi usually left on your bottom after a particularly good night.

However, after too much alcohol and too much time spent salivating over how Javi’s hands would feel against your clit, you gave in and pulled the dildo from where it was sitting in your nightstand. You propped the camera up on the floor with a timer, pulling aside the front of your thong the instant the camera flashes another time, catching your swollen cunt and dripping folds with the head of the dildo nuzzled just barely inside your hole.

You’d whined as the camera flash faded, sending white spots dancing behind your eyes while the toy inside of you brought static running through your veins. You arch your back, pussy now pushed comfortingly down to the base of the dildo, trying to imagine with all your might it’s Javier and not some detached piece of plastic to fill his place.

Another flash. Another bounce. Honestly, you couldn’t tell how long you’d been rutting down against the dildo when the first cartridge ran out. You’d been mewling loud and long with each roll of your hips, the straps of your lingerie having fallen to expose your breasts to the camera, blurred with movement in the picture, but enticing nonetheless where the lace frames their shapes.

You’d pulled off with a whine to refill the film, but the embarrassment you’d felt when you saw the glossy strings of your arousal hanging between your cunt and the tip of the toy had you stalling for a minute. 

_God_ , Javi had had you dripping wet, and he hadn’t even been there.

Once the second cartridge had been refilled, you’d ditched the lingerie without a second thought, fucking yourself rapidly on the dildo now that clothing could no longer restrict your movement, naked body glistening with sweat, yelling his name to the camera as if you could translate your desperation onto the film itself.

You’d come hard with a shout, back arched with a blinding camera flash, slick running down your thighs from the rapid riding just seconds before. Catching your breath, you’d pulled the camera towards you with flushed cheeks, just barely having the presence of mind to shove it between your shaking legs to capture one last photo of your shining, abused pussy, creamy from bouncing so hard on the toy, some sort of pseudo-creampie you know he’d love to recreate himself.

And it's when Javi looks up from the manila envelope with red, bitten lips, tongue in his cheek, that you know he’s looking at that photo. You hold his gaze, expression impassive, yet your pulse skyrockets. It’s not just the fact that you took those photos--dressed up in lingerie while half-drunk to fuck yourself in the middle of the night, just because you had some stupid idea to put him in his place--but the fact that he’s indulging you this far.

You can see his jaw grinding, cigarette dropping ash onto his desktop rather than into the ashtray, simply because his eyes keep running hurried lines between each polaroid. Steve continues on, none-the-wiser, simply typing up some boring action report about seized evidence and kilos of cocaine while Javi looks at pictures of you masturbating in broad daylight, tenting his jeans in the middle of the office where anyone could see.  
He’s got lockjaw and is as wide-eyed as a stoic man like him could get, powerless to do anything but sit there and fucking take what you give him whether he likes it or not, lest the entire office find out about your little extracurricular activities.

 _Not that you’d mind_ , your brain helpfully supplies.

You bite your lip, returning the file you’d been fiddling with to the correct locker. Maybe you were a little more into it than you’d been willing to admit before...the camera’s one thing, but now that your mind’s wondering how quiet Javi could stay if you blew him under his desk the next time Steve takes a day off…

You feel your panties getting damp now, legs slick in between where the physical product of your overactive imagination leaks steadily with every stunted stint of eye contact Javi sends you in between furious reshufflings of the photos.

However, it’s when you see him reach below his desk with a small cough--whether to readjust himself or to palm himself, you really can’t tell--that you know you’ve won.

You smirk at him from where you stand against the file lockers, obnoxiously proud in your high heels and skin-tight skirt, the embodiment of his wet dreams come to life, yet entirely out of his reach. He calls your name with as much subtlety as he can manage, but you catch the warning (and the plea) hidden in his tone, and simply shake your head.

You cross your arms as his adam's apple bobs with frustration, hands still suspiciously low beneath his desk, and you merely stifle a laugh at the look on his face, gathering a stack of finished paperwork on the counter near your hip to lug down to the ambassador’s office.

That day, it’s you who leaves Javier Peña high and dry.

The stack of polaroids lay innocuously in the manila folder on his desk, one loose sheet of paper left to stare back at him from where it sits in front of him, taunting him for every remaining minute he’ll stay here, jeans too tight in the front, pretending to file paperwork when he’d kiss the ground you walk on just to get a taste.

 _How’s that for a little payback?_ The note reads.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)


End file.
